The moment you see something with your own eyes and feel injustice with all your senses, you cross an inner border, you know you can’t go back from there.
The war is over or is it? Do I know you as a dirty innocent thing yet? A discarded soft child forgotten by your god? A picture frame made of wilted flowers?
When I first stepped into the county jail, I knew his pain, so I share his message on behalf of all the unknown people behind the inmate statistics data.